Honey Bee
by Riveting Red Pants
Summary: Just a little fluff inspired by the song "Honey Bee" by Blake Shelton, and a good friend. Sherlock is from England visiting the United States, and is drawn to a certain blonde bee keeper. i don't own Sherlock (or else johnlock. johnlock everywhere) or Blake Shelton (if only) all props go to them, and to my wonderful Alli.


Honey Bee

Sherlock had the top of his car rolled down; the wind blew through his long unkempt curly black hair. The sun shone through the leaves in the trees, making them a brilliant glowing jade rather than the regular stale green. The clouds were perfect puffs of serenity across a blissful blue sky. It was enough to drive him mad. Sherlock leaned his head back a little against the seat of his Black mustang convertible. He had always hated holidays with his family, but this one had hit a new all time low. _United States._ He could feel the distaste growing in his mouth, his nose wrinkling. And _southern_ United States at that. When his parents had suggested a trip to America, Sherlock had presumed it would at least be somewhere interesting. Not town after town of country yuppies in ten gallon hats. Ever since they stepped off the plane, Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to step right back on and never again allow his feet to grace US soil. In a fit of fury and the need for independence, he had rented a car with his parent's money and driven off for the day. His parents probably wouldn't even care. They were too busy worshiping Mycroft over his knowledge of Texan lore. As if any suitable mind would need Texan lore in its mind palace. He scoffed.

Then something caught his eye. A little stand along the side of the road, in front of a large white country house. He looked closer, it was a stand selling honey, and honey based products. He had always been fascinated with bees, so he decided to pull over, having nothing better to do. He got out of his car and strode over to the stand, to see the little man peering up at him from behind the various jars of honey. He stood up right away. Sherlock noticed right off the bat that this man was attractive. He had sandy blonde hair, and tanned skin. He wore a plaid button down shirt and very tight blue jeans tucked into boots. The usual Texan garb, Sherlock supposed. His eyes were a dark blue that captured Sherlock's attention more than anything else. For once, he found himself speechless.

"So erm . . . what do you . . . sell here. . ." he asked, his British accent seeming out of place amongst the simmering Texan day. The man smiled a little bit.

"Honey." He answered, raising an eyebrow. He held out a hand, "My name's John." Sherlock took it, noticing right away how warm it was. Everything in Texas was so very warm.

"Sherlock." He replied. John smiled bigger.

"Nice to meet ya Sherlock. That's an odd name." Sherlock shrugged, he got that a lot. Especially in the United States. "Are you from England?" John asked. Sherlock wanted to answer in his usual way, with a scoff and a _yes you ignorant American scum._ But instead he found himself smiling charmingly and answering,

"What gave me away? The car?" John laughed at that. Sherlock felt good that John had laughed, and realized it was something he very much wanted to do again. "Do you tend to your own bees?" Sherlock asked, suddenly remembering why he had pulled over in the first place.

"Sure do, have since I was a boy." Sherlock's eyes got wide.

"I'm so very interested in bees. How do you avoid getting stung?"

"Well, most people wear protective gear, but I just kinda sing to them." Sherlock was dumbfounded.

"You . . . sing . . . to the bees?" he asked. John nodded with a grin.

"Say, business isn't exactly booming, wanna come check it out?" Sherlock wanted nothing more, and voiced that opinion. In no time they were in John's backyard, amidst what seemed like fifteen or twenty different manmade bee hives. John advised Sherlock to sit on the porch, unless he wanted to get stung, and John began to creep up to one of the hives, a low rumbling sound emitting from his throat. Sherlock leaned forward to listen. John was singing a song; in fact, he was singing a song Sherlock recognized from the radio in his car.

_You be my soft and sweet, I'll be your strong and steady_

_You be my glass of wine, I'll be your shot of whisky,_

_You be my sunny day, I'll be your shade tree,_

_You be my honey suckle, I'll be your honey bee_

Sherlock couldn't help the quirk of his mouth as the man neared the hive, his voice noticeably calming the swarming bees. They crawled all over his face and arms, and yet John fearlessly plunged a hand down into the hive and pulled out a honey comb, then produced a jar from god-knows-where, and placed the honey comb inside. He seemed completely at ease with the bees, and didn't mind at all that they swarmed him; he almost seemed to cuddle them back, smiling and laughing through his song, completely calm. Sherlock admired this man so much already, and he'd only just met him. John came up to the porch, all the bees now gone, and handed Sherlock the jar of honey, licking his hand as he did so.

"There ya go." Sherlock grinned up at him from the porch swing.

"You were so brave!" he said, admiration seeping through his voice. John shrugged and smiled, getting the last of his honey off of his hand with his tongue.

"They're my pets. Once you're used to them, they won't hurt you."

"Have you ever been stung before?" Sherlock asked, in awe.

"A few times, but they were my fault." John started to walk Sherlock back to the front of the house.

"How much do I owe you for the honey?" he asked, John grinned a grin that Sherlock could get used to.

"Free of charge. Welcome to Texas." Sherlock, for the first time, did actually feel welcome to Texas.

"Thank you. Thank you very much." Sherlock started to walk to his car, saddened by the fact that he would probably never see John again, when John called out,

"Hey, listen, Sherlock . . ." Sherlock turned fast, honey clutched in his hands, "if you ain't too busy, we're having a little honky tonk tonight at the Broken Spoke. Care to join?" Sherlock raised his eyebrow, his mouth agape.

"Wh-what exactly is a . . . a honky tonk?" John laughed,

"It's like a dance."

"Oh. . ."

"Well, if you can make it, it starts at six, at the Broken Spoke." Sherlock grinned at the man and nodded,

"I'll be there!" he agreed. Well, he did have nothing better to do. He went to the hotel and prepared his outfit.

"What are you _doing?"_ he heard Mycroft ask from behind him, he whirled.

"It is none of your concern." Sherlock answered prudishly. Mycroft wrinkled his nose.

"You are aware that Mummy arranged for us to see a play with the governor this afternoon?" he asked, Sherlock smiled falsely.

"Exactly, I am preparing for it." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"So, who was it?" Sherlock raised his brows, as if acting uninterested.

"Who was who, Mycroft?"

"The bumpkin you fell in love with?" Sherlock's mouth hung open. He sometimes forgot that Mycroft had his moments of intellectual genius. It was hard to remember the little people when one considered oneself in the intellectual "big leagues".

"I haven't fallen in love with anybody." Sherlock retorted. Mycroft smiled falsely this time.

"Oh yes you have. Your tie color subconsciously matches your natural lip color, suggestive. And you've actually taken effort to prepare an outfit for once, rather than roll out of bed in nothing more than a sheet."

"Lay off my sheet." Sherlock retorted, getting angry now.

"I do hope he's rather nice to you, you are so looking forward to spending time with him tonight."

". . . Who says it's a he?" Mycroft looked at Sherlock sympathetically.

"Come now dear brother, you didn't think I was blind now did you? All those times back home when your gaze would wonder just a little too long. . ."

"Shut up Mycroft." Sherlock snapped. Mycroft shrugged.

"It's quite alright Sherlly, just . . . don't get hut. And don't let Mummy and Daddy figure it out." Sherlock sneered.

"To hell with Mummy and Daddy." Mycroft actually laughed.

"I'll cover for you tonight, have fun little brother." Mycroft began to leave the hotel room, Sherlock choking on thanks; the words could never seem to come out of his mouth right, not when they were directed at Mycroft. But before he had even managed to stop choking on them, Mycroft uttered a simple, "Don't mention it," as he closed the hotel room door.

Sherlock entered into the Broken Spoke, clad in his best suit, the color of his shirt was a very soft pink, and the suit fit him perfectly, hugging him in all the right places, he decided to get rid of the tie, it was too formal. And after stepping inside the broken spoke, he realized all of him was too formal. He blushed furiously at the looks he got from everyone as he stepped inside. He felt like Cinderella at the ball, the way everyone stared at him as he entered. They all wore jeans and tee shirts, some wore button ups, some of the girls wore jersey dresses, and all wore boots. Sherlock looked down at his nice dress shoes. Feeling like he should turn and leave while he still had a scrap of dignity, Sherlock shuffled awkwardly forward, before a large hand placed itself on his shoulder. Sherlock was greeted with John's grin.

"Well . . . i suppose I should've specified on exactly what type of dance it was, I'm sorry." Sherlock blushed anew. "But if it means anything, you look sharp." John said with a wink, and led Sherlock over to the bar to get a beer. Sherlock had never had beer before, and was unfamiliar with how to drink it, so he chugged it, thinking he was supposed to throw it back like one would hard liquor. John shrugged, figuring Sherlock had had enough embarrassment for one night and chugged his beer right along with Sherlock. Two or five chugged beers later and the boys found themselves on the dance floor, Sherlock had discarded his suit jacket on a barstool and somehow a few of the top buttons of his shirt had come undone. The two danced for what seemed like a life time. Sherlock had never considered himself a great dancer before, but then again, he had never danced to country music before. Something about it just hit a cord in his heart, a homey, comforting cord. It made him wish to stay wrapped up in this warm bliss forever. He was very warm, the mass of bodies pressed up together in the center of the room, plus the warmth of alcohol made him feel as though he were on fire, but some unreal kind of fire, the kind that didn't hurt, only comforted. John pressed up closer to Sherlock in a few songs, clearly not shy, and even taught Sherlock how to line dance to a few songs, which Sherlock was not all that good at, but he kept trying, laughing right along with John when he got his nice dress shoes stomped on.

Later in the night they decided to go for a walk, and ended up at the park, Sherlock with his jacket slung over his back, and John with his hat in one hand, both stumbling around drunk and giggling. Finally John fell down on a grassy hill, and Sherlock decided to fall down next to him, figuring they should both take a break from walking. The air was sticky and hot, and the moon was full. The stars glowed like Sherlock had never seen before.

"There's Orion's belt." He said, pointing lazily up at the sky. John looked up and nodded. Sherlock turned and smiled at John. "I wish I could stay here forever." He murmured. John smiled back.

"Well then stay Sherlock." Sherlock couldn't help himself; he didn't think about what he was doing, he just felt so drawn to John right at that moment. He leaned over and placed one small, soft, chaste kiss on John's mouth, and then fell back against the ground, blushing up at the sky. John lay there, blushing heavily as well.

"What was that?" he asked. And suddenly Sherlock was afraid.

"Was that . . . okay?" Sherlock asked, feeling like he should get up and leave now.

"No."

"Oh I'm so sor-," John suddenly leaned over Sherlock, and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's in a hot sloppy kiss that seared him with passion and then pulled back, "_That_ was okay." John answered, smiling down at a dumb struck Sherlock.

"That was more than okay." Sherlock muttered.

"Do you want to go back to my place?" John asked, smiling coyly at Sherlock.

"Oh God yes." Sherlock answered.

Two weeks later Sherlock was standing in the airport, waving goodbye. John stood there, tears in his eyes. Mycroft hugged Sherlock stiffly as Mummy and Daddy looked on disapprovingly.

"Take care of yourself little brother." Sherlock grinned, arm wrapped around a joyous john. John told Mycroft, unashamed,

"He'll be my honey bee."


End file.
